Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Bellatrix
“Ugh, this trunk is being salty!” I tug at the lid so hard that I move the whole thing, causing a stack of boxes off to the side to creak ominously.
Precarious is too kind a word for what those top boxes are doing. The middle and bottom ones are so squished from the weight of the ones above them that even the slightest breeze could dislodge the whole shebang.
For the past hour, I’ve found out the hard way that picking isn’t what they make it out to be on those shows. It’s a lot of dust, sweat, grime, heavy lifting, and grunt work.
We started as a team, tackling the boxes to get them down off the stacks, but we quickly branched off, going through trunks and boxes and looking in nooks and crannies, jam-packed corners, overflowing crates, and messy piles.
I yank on the trunk again, and when it gives, with a weird sucking sound followed by a crack, it jars my shoulder so hard that I wonder if the crack part was the echo of my bones dislocating.
I lift the lid and swipe my hand through the dancing dust mites.
At least eight sets of eyes stare up at me from the depths of the trunk. My heart stops, then slams into a feral pace. Those eyes aren’t animate, but they’re capitalized creepy.
I pull out the doll with tape and wire wrapped around her neck to hold her blading head on. Her eyes flicker up and down, then go back to the half-mast staredown she was giving me from the trunk.
I set her aside and examine the collection of soulless stuffed animals at the bottom of the trunk.
The bear at the very bottom of the pile is the worst, as though all the other toys attempted to cover up his malevolent face to prevent the terror from leaking out of the cracks between the lid and the body of the trunk like black smoke.
He’s missing an eye, but that’s the least of his worries.
His gap-toothed grin is something from the worst of the worst and then still, the worst nightmare.
It appears human teeth have been sewn onto his face, and long, streaky hair sprouts from his head.
Thank goodness it’s fake. Like it was ripped from a doll’s scalp.
I hold the bear aloft like he’s going to be kinged. I spin around, laughter spilling out of me. It’s a little unhinged and a whole lot triumphant. “Rowleigh!”
He turns from his pile on the far side of the barn. His eyes lock on me first and then slowly rake up my body to the bear. The way he takes his time getting there ensures that my lady bits notice hard and throw a little lady bits party with a full celebration dance.
My feet tap out their own little happy dance. “Beat this, baby!”
Rowleigh’s eyes finally hit the bear. “Gah! What the fuck?”
“I know! Isn’t it amazing!” I crow.
“Put that thing down! It looks like it needs a hearty exorcism.”
“Hearty?” I lower the bear and cradle his foul body in my arms like a baby. “And here I thought just a regular one would suffice.” I lift a shoulder in an innocent shrug. “I win. I win so hard.”
This was totally worth breaking three of my nails down to the ouchy pink part, getting dust in my contacts, and melting in my clothes and the itchy mask. It’s probably going to leave suction marks on my face when I take it off. I can feel the sweat and breath pooling inside it in a dank, soupy mix.
Rowleigh looks around the barn, then points to an old car grill he propped up against the wall earlier. It’s from the thirties, I think. It’s from one of those gangster cars that had those doors that open the wrong way.
“I’m choosing the grill.”
“That’s cool, and it would look sweet in a mancave, but I think you should keep going. I already have my prize. I’m taking a water break.”
I close the trunk and carefully put the bear down on top. He’s decrepit enough to crumble.
“You have to find your own chest of chilling cadaverous creepiness. Minus the cadaver.”
Despite saying I was going for water, I ended up not. Instead, I lean up against one of the old stalls on the side of the barn where a cooling breeze is blowing through the open doors and watch as Rowleigh turns back to sorting through the pile he was tackling.
It was dark in here, but our eyes are well-adjusted now. The sunbeams look extra bright, a storm of little particles rising up to dance like fairy dust with every movement.
“So…tell me about your daughter.” For the love of rusty rats. Of all the things my brain could pick, it pulls that out?
Despite this chaotic plan, I hate being dishonest. Lying hurts people, and Rowleigh would be so appalled if he ever found out I’m best friends with Mika. No, when he finds out. I’m going to have to tell him. Sooner rather than later.
He stops and turns, brushing dirt off his hands. “The internet didn’t give you enough?” He laughs behind his mask, a muffled hmm hmmmm hmmmm that sounds far prettier than it should. Also funnier. Somehow, it’s both, which makes my stomach all fluttery.
It’s the barn dust. It’s creeping in through my ears because it can’t gain access to my nose or mouth, and it’s addling my brain.
“The internet doesn’t tell anyone much of anything about anyone.”
At least that’s true. There’s not really that much about Mika, Marlene, or Rowleigh, but plenty about the vase he found in the trash—the vase.
There are all these facts about how Rowleigh tried to find the owner.
After putting up posters, he waited six months for someone to contact him, but the only two people who did couldn’t describe the vase since only a sliver of it was photographed, and they couldn’t name the location where it had been thrown out.
No one was interested, and no one wanted it.
Even after he sold it, he still tried to find the owner to split the money, but no one came forward.
He tried harder than anyone on earth to be a good person about his good fortune.
There’s also some stuff about his hotels and a little bit about his background, but not much.
But those are just facts. Cold, empty shells of events.
“She’s great. She marches to her own drum, which is a good thing.” He’s clearly not finished, but he walks out of the barn. I stay right where I am, my heart pounding weirdly.
He returns with the water bottles and passes one to me. He cracks the lid on his, lifts his mask, and pours the entire thing down his throat in one long chug-fest.
I watch the muscles in his throat bob as he swallows repeatedly. My mouth is so dry that I have to shed my mask and down half of my own bottle.
Rowleigh pulls the mask all the way off and wipes his mouth, smearing dirt over his chin. Wanting to lick it off for him is not a sane impulse.
“I’m not sure we’d have any kind of relationship if she didn’t have an independent streak.
She’s her own person in every way, and it’s both wonderful and terrifying.
” Right, we were talking about Mika. “Not for me, but I’m sure some people think so.
She’s been into goth for years now. I don’t know how much she actually believes in the ideals, but she likes dressing that way.
She works at a cool little store that sells gothic clothing and accessories.
She loves it, and that’s what’s important.
She’s a great person all around. Kind, smart, and lovely on the inside and out.
I had almost nothing to do with raising her, and I can take no credit, but it fills me up with pride all the same. ”
The sadness in his voice is unmistakable.
It fills him up with pride and sorrow, regret and joy.
Every emotion has to be bittersweet. He sounds like he needs a hug, and I want to give him one.
I want to wrap my arms around his back, hold him close, and promise him that everything will work out.
That it’s not too late. That Mika loves him, too, and she’s found a way to make her peace with the whole thing.
She just wants her dad. She doesn’t have stipulations about how it happens, even if it makes sense that she should.
She’s the kind of person who can be hurt but comes back at life even harder.
She’s so inspiring and beyond lovely inside and out.
I want to tell him that I know.
I want to hug him hard and then harder until my ribs crush into his ribs, and we’re pressed that tightly together. Until neither of us can breathe because we’re so squished. Happy squished.
I want him to turn around and hug me on his own. To take off my mask and his mask and, even though we’re both covered in dirt and grime, kiss me filthily.
Probably legit filthy.
But metaphorically too.
I want—
No, I can’t want. That’s what I have to remember above everything else.
I drink some more water, then go about spouting wisdom I have no real notion of.
“Even when things are good, there’s always room for it to get better.
” Take chances. Paint the condo. That’s wisdom for me.
Hope for the future Bellatrix, where I underwhelm my parents more than I already have, with extreme disappointment in finding my inner badass artist. Put up wallpaper.
Hang art. Make art. Be loud. Take up space.
Mika said all of that, but I don’t know how.
I was taught to be quiet, to conform, to behave.
Breaking free is painful. I’ve had to emerge from that cocoon slowly, and after years, I still only have my head peeking out.
And I’m currently looking at the world’s most beautiful scenery in the form of Rowleigh, who looks dirt-encrusted, grimy, and sweat-soaked.
My mouth goes dry, and my panties do the opposite.
“I have no idea what it would be like to be in love with my life,” I blurt. “I have no idea what I’m even saying right now.”
I stop because I’m shaking, trembling. If it gets worse, I’m going to stir up dust without even moving a single step. We’re both too quiet for too long.